


Hometown

by lightningrogers



Series: West 35th [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Heartache, M/M, Musician Steve Rogers, Reminiscing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 12:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightningrogers/pseuds/lightningrogers
Summary: Steve goes back to a place he never thought he would.





	Hometown

The song for this part is Hometown by twenty one pilots:[https://open.spotify.com/user/nihilismdun/playlist/0iqtApD1DN1dM4RpTsL93n?si=mfDmM3jRTUiVbgQyge1T1w ](https://open.spotify.com/user/nihilismdun/playlist/0iqtApD1DN1dM4RpTsL93n?si=mfDmM3jRTUiVbgQyge1T1w)

A cemetery of trees lined the garden. tall, foreboding, the tangles of nature’s arms twisted and snagged at one another – reaching up towards the distant sunlight, reaching out towards each other to aid everyone’s plight for life. Shadows splayed themselves out – beautiful hands of darkness – and the sparse foliage that sought a home within the graveyard whispered; gossiping about the arrival of the frigidity winter had to offer. The deep bass thrum of a car engine bled into the breeze, and the car’s alarm dared to fracture the haunting tranquillity of the morning as the man stepped out of the comfortable warmth of the vehicle. Looming, the relic stood before him, timber tones and swift snippets of a past he couldn’t quite piece together beckoning him forward. The house’s façade almost swayed beneath his gentle stature, but, somehow, his iron grip on the rotting balustrade reassured this slice of history’s vessel; an implicit demand to keep itself composed for a little more time. It wouldn’t be long until Steve remembered, now.

Melancholy settled into the barren wasteland of his chest. Steve’s organs halted with his fickle breath; not a sound was made as the front door opened with no need for a key. Timid within the entryway, cobwebs danced idly in the draught and vacant desolation hit him with an unrivalled force. Some spark of redolence lit up within him at the lined hallways, shelves once filled with framed memories and captured stories – small memoirs of an exciting life, leaping forth to wrap up anyone interested enough in exhilaration or adventure. Shuffling through the kitchen, he couldn’t educe a time when he’d ever used it. This had always been _his_ home. Fingers gripped to peek around corners, he glimpsed into the now bare bedrooms, hurt coming in a white-wash of unadulterated emotion. There were too many times that turning away from the confrontation would have been the easiest option, yet, he knew, an uncharacteristic determination making him unrecognisable, that this had to be done. This had to be faced.

Through the living space, his quiet feet laminated themselves into the timber floorboards, as if he was to remain whisper quiet throughout the cavernous chasm of empty space. He could remember, with vague claim to reminiscence, _his_ waving form here. Under the shrouding eloquence of his recorded music, Steve could picture his body, strong and purposeful, leaning into the hums procured by the sound system. Sometimes watching from the archway, he would smirk, taking in the man’s often technically flawed movements and marvelling in the spiteful passion and artistry. Limbs extended, he would sink into Steve on the occasions the blond would join him, a new motivation igniting within his darkened gaze. They were lovely together, but equally as pulchritudinous apart, with the furniture backing up and hugging the walls to create an area big enough for them both in the middle. It was easy to watch, easy to muse, and his homesick heart recalled this with near perfect clarity. But then he’d left, and this place was no longer Steve’s as he rejected every piece of himself reflected in the home they’d built together.

It wasn’t until he ventured into the last room to be re-explored that he found it; the last puzzle piece in his brain clicked into place, and the smell of must and decay only made him feel more welcome. The walls of the almost empty space seemingly curved in to greet him as he ventured inside, and the curtains covering the windows facing the back garden had been left drawn by whoever was there last. Later in the day, as the sun would lower in the sky, this room would be bathed in rich orange light, syrupy and golden before the quickly approaching fall of night would swallow such a glow whole. This evening was set to be one that drew people in close, intertwined with an intrinsic beauty found and bred inside the dark spaces and corners of both the physical and meta; an indulgence of the senses so poetic.

The heavy tarpaulin draped over the hidden object cracked and split under his nimble artist’s fingers, fragile and withered from years of disuse. As he pulled the plastic sheet away, a hurricane of dust showered and floundered within the air, wreaking havoc on the blond’s respiratory system. Coughing, he lowered himself, leaning onto the leather bench to test his weight: it creaked slightly, but held him steady and unmoving as he poised his hands. Miraculously, as the keys sang beneath his fingertips, the grand piano seethed in perfect tune, chords perhaps tired with age, but slowly awaking from their slumber.

Muscle memory guided the man as he closed his eyes, letting his hands speak for him to an audience he mightn’t ever get to really play for. He showcased himself for the hidden secrets and ghosts of the house to watch, the bones of the place shifting along with the finality of it all. Joining in with the melodic pacing of his fingers, the man sang to the open air, tongue releasing all the things he wished he could have spoken aloud, story unfurling from the pandora’s box inside his head: “ _Where we’re from, there’s no sun_ , _our hometown’s in the dark_.” He dipped forward, back arching as his head bowed. A few thick locks of golden hair fell mindlessly into his still closed eyes. An uncontainable smile overcame him, a grin that dripped lazily from his lips as the familiarity of the words seeped into his skin, remembering Bucky, the life they’d shared. “ _Where we’re from, we’re no one,_ _our hometown’s in the dark_.”

He stayed seated at the piano long after he’d finished his humble symphony; fingers ghosting the keys occasionally, begging, pleading, to press down and let them sing evermore. He stayed until the sun retired into the horizon, pitch black overcoming the luminescence of the sunset, and was still there when it rose again the next day. He chastised himself, with a sickening longing, about how much sooner he should have returned, how much more glorious unpacking this repressed past would have felt if done when he was still mourning. But alas, he was home, time acting as no real villain to the life he left behind – perhaps only a pause he was finally coming back to. “ _Our hometown’s in the dark.”_


End file.
